Chapter 51
Chapter fifty-one
London
All that afternoon at the Colonial Office, Crispin’s mind was furiously working, putting pieces together in different shapes.
That morning at breakfast, his father had announced to the family that he’d be taking a work colleague to Yorkshire very soon—a fellow from the office who has taken a fancy to the dragons, were his exact words.
“Everyone’s mad over them,” Penny had grumbled. “And what have dragons ever done for us, I ask you?”
As it turned out, the dragons had done quite a lot for Crispin. They had gotten him a proper job (with a codename) at Britain’s fledgling espionage service. Never mind it was in a lamentable shambles. That, in itself, presented Crispin with an opportunity to excel.
Now he just had to make good on his promise to C to worm himself (pun intended) securely into the confidence of his Yorkshire connections.
But he’d have to be quick. He could tell his father was uneasy about something.
The War Office looked as if they were going to make some sort of move themselves.
Crispin would have to move faster. He didn’t like putting his assignment for Churchill to one side.
C might laugh at it as theatrics, but he couldn’t forget the Home Secretary’s ringside speech.
It still gave him chills when he thought of it.
But for now, his priority was to establish himself in the SSB and his new employer’s good graces.
He’d follow up the Brotherhood of St George on the side, and keep anything he found in his pocket until Churchill came calling.
Next up—how to present himself in Ormdale in the best possible light, and before his father did.
“Neil,” Crispin said to the clerk eating a sandwich at his desk. “Are they still looking for someone to help out on that committee you told me about?”
“You mean for Brussels?” asked Neil. “Rather. Between the two of us, Britain’s contribution looks to be a bit of a flop. I don’t know what they were thinking. It’s the Universal Exposition, you know, not your spinster aunt’s charity bazaar.”
“What a shame,” said Crispin. “But still, it gives someone somewhere a chance to pull a rabbit out of his hat at the last moment, doesn’t it?”
But he was thinking of a very different sort of creature—the kind the most extraordinary girl he had ever seen liked to hold in her arms.
“What do you mean this isn’t a story?” Penny repeated in amazement.
“Somebody tried to burn a Chinese laundry?” the subeditor repeated in a flat tone. “And no one was trapped inside? Was it gang warfare? Does it threaten our readers? No?”
“There’s a secret society behind it,” protested Penny. “A sinister brotherhood. I chased one of them all over Limehouse. He was—very unpleasant.”
“I’m trembling,” the editor said, turning away and picking up a proof.
Penny was in shock. She knew she was really onto something. Something big. Why couldn’t this stupid man see it?
“What if I infiltrate it? Like Nelly Bly?” The words had slipped out quite unintended.
But it was true. Why, if Nelly Bly could commit herself to a madhouse for ten days or circle the globe in only seventy-two in one blue wool dress, then Penny Fairweather could insinuate herself into a secret society of English nativists, surely.
“You think you can do that, Miss Fairweather?” he said, eyeing her with a gratifying return of interest. “Undercover? And there’s a connection to the Yorkshire lizards?” He looked her up and down, then held out his hand. “You’re on.”
Too late, she wondered if the Brotherhood of Saint George ever accepted female members.